Crossed Palms
by Olhado
Summary: It's another AU, in the general time period of the 1700s. Evietro -- in a general, kinda platonic sense.
1. Default Chapter

A/N:  I consider this story set in the 1700s, but anyone who knows anything about the 1700s will catch immediately that I did a. no research and b. didn't care.  Likewise, anyone who knows anything about geography will notice that America is not exactly anything like America and that there is no large city in Spain called Olnack and so on and so forth.

More importantly, the cultures portrayed here are almost entirely made up, and just go under the _guise_ of what I say they are.  I have my reasons, really.  If you want real information on gypsies (properly called "the Roma") go to paltrin.com.  It's incredibly informative.

Oh!  Yes, this is Evietro, mild slash, and dedicated to batE.  Even if she'll notice right off that Evan's and Pietro's personalities are kinda . . . switched and the powers are all wrong or non-existent and . . . 

The docks are never empty on certain hours, on certain days, when the sun is high, but not as bright as it was in the summer and the less hardy of people start to feel pressed toward warmer climes.  They skitter around the harbor with wide eyes and sack upon sack of clothes and can't-part-with-it positions plastered over their backs, or over their servants' backs, should they be more well-to-do.

Of course, no matter the season, and no matter how excellent business has turned, there is always clumps of riff-raff to form some kind of contrast.  The poorer patrons actually have to form lines, unable to push ahead by force of their flashy clothing and flashing monies.  You'll have a guard patrolling the crowds, keeping a lazy eye out, just in case.  But nothing major is likely to happen.  The people (who have to) form their lines and impatiently wait for the richer to bluster on board their various ships.  It's not as though they have much to weigh them down.  The poorer seldom can afford to be pleasure seekers -- if they leave, if they ship off for greener pastures, they'll remain. They won't return when the weather here gets better, they won't return when they get bored.  Many of these are tip-toeing uneasily over their last chance for prosperity, many are trying to earn money for a starving family and have to move where the job market isn't such a wasteland.  Many are simply trying to escape.  From what is their business.

Follow the line back a ways, over those family groups and scruffy teenagers antsy to be doing something more than standing here and old creaky rags that "might have been something in their day" and there always has to be someone at the back of the line.  That someone might change in a moment, when more boarders come trickling in, but let's look at the current one for a moment.  He keeps looking over his shoulder nervously, like some great-aunt is going to come screaming over the docks, begging to kiss him good bye one more time . . . or not.  It probably wouldn't matter if it was his beloved girl he was leaving behind -- his expression and body are so tense and apprehensive, that you can't imagine him relaxing for Helen of Troy, let alone a relative, or some silly female.  He is fairly young, still a boy really, skinny, with thin, slanted eyes that smoulder a confused, angry blue.  His clothing is drab, save for the faded blue bandanna that pushes back oddly white hair, and far too large for him.  A few copper earrings dangle from one ear and a likewise copper ring hangs from around his neck, on a chain, which, with its silver look, might be the most valuble thing he has.  His furtive air and painful slouch certainly don't give him an appearance of having much else.

The line finally starts to shuffle forward and he shuffles with it, hands so deeply in his pockets that one can't see much below his elbow.  Occasionally, his mouth opens slightly, as if he's muttering to himself.  At the very front of this line, if we may pull away from our skinny little boy for a moment, is a man taking money and taking tickets and gruffly ordering the passengers onto the boat and down to the steerage.  A couple of peasants do bristle at one point, when the man ends up taking more than they bargained on paying, but the line moves on, nothing happens, one person succeeds another until the line has petered out and our boy is still at the end of it.

He squints narrowly up at the man, who stares brusquely down.

"Payment?"  His massive fingers wave in toward his palm.

"Oh!  Uh, yeah," the boy stammers, as if caught off guard, and unfastens the four earrings from his right ear, arranging them in the opposite hand, and offering them to the man.

The man does not look impressed.  "Son, those 'rn't gonna ferry you more'n a few miles downcoast."

The boy shrugs, but an uneasy quiver makes it into his expression.  No stone-face, this one.

"What 'bout the ring?  Won't get you much farther, but the chain might pass you down closer to America, if that's where you're going?"

"Can't give you the ring.  Uh, no, can't."  The boy starts wringing his hands, his nervousness all-too-obvious now.

"Then step off the dock.  I can't take ya."

"Okay."  Tone appropriately miserable, the boy begins to back away.  The man sighs.

"Or, I'm guessin' I can set you up as a sailor.  I don' like doin' that, but if you work 'ard, I might not drop you off at the next port.  We'll see."

The boy looks hopefully up at him, although one hand's still clasping the other.  "I'd do that."

"We'll see."  The man picks up the clipboard from its position beside him, on a post, and licks the adjoining quill.  "What's yer name, then?"

"Pietro.  Uh, Pietro Maximoff.  Maximoff's my clan, that is."

"You's a Gypsy?"  A flash of uncertainty now.  "What's you doin' here alone if you's a gypsy?"

"Um, I'm recently clanless, actually."  The boy's smile is unconscious, and very twitchy.  The man isn't sure he likes it.

"Why clanless?"  

"Um, just, y'know, trying to make my own in the world, for once.  Wanna see what it's like outside the caravan, stuff like that."

"Guess you wouldn't know a few measly earrings ain't gettin' you anywhere."  The man's tone is still wary.  "Kid, don' take me wrong or nothin', but you go filchin' anythin', and I'll either drop you on the first authority that shows 'is 'ead, or I'm leavin' you in the ocean."

Pietro straightens. "We don't do that.  We don't steal."  

"Yes'n, you do.  But _you_ _yourself _won't, right?"

"No . . . sir."  The boy chews sidelong on his lip, his narrow eyes fixed on the man.

"See that you don't.  Yer 'ired for the moment.  Evan!"

A young man, dark-skinned and dark eyed with a loose and well-groomed clump of black hair comes sauntering down the dock.  Pietro is more than certain he's never seen the youth before, but he grins at Pietro toothily and waves like they're somehow old friends.

"Yes, boss?"  He's alongside the man now, still grinning at Pietro.

"New sailor.  Yer responsibility.  Get 'im swabbin' or somethin'.  I'm gettin' the ship ready."  He peels onto the ship, bellowing.  Pietro hitches his shoulders, trying to avert his gaze from the weird youngster as if that would make him go away.

"Name?"  The dark eyes are right in his face, suddenly, and he jumps backwards, limbs flailing.  The other boy laughs and grabs his shirt front before he manages to careen off the dock.  Dark-boy continues to smile, as if just waiting for an answer, as if Pietro didn't just wet himself, or whatnot.

"P-pietro," he finally gasps and Dark-boy yanks him hard forward until he's secure on the dock and lets him go.

"Great.  Very pretty.  I'm Evan and that's just Evan.  A-and, I'm an African, so, yes, when you get off the dock wherever you're stopping, you can tell all your new buddies what you ran into.  Ready?"

Pietro just stares at him blankly.  "What?"

"Ready to get on the ship, as we're gonna be moving off in a second or two?"

"Oh, um, yeah."  He nods belatedly.

"Then come on!"  Evan bounds up the ramp, onto the decks, not bothering to look back to see if Pietro's coming.  He does come, however slowly and uncertainly, eyes sweeping the hollow boards under his feet as if he expects them to break under him should he step a little too hard.  Evan whistles with urgency and bounds back, then off again.

"Slow!"  he barks, and Pietro tries to increase his pace, despite the uneasy sway of the ship that's already making him a twinge nauseous.  No good.

The dark boy finally stops next to a closet, slamming it open with a deft slap of a palm.  With all that fanfare, you'd expect the closet to be full of gold, or at least food.  But, of course, it's just a few brooms and mops and a bucket or two.  Evan snatches a bucket and mop and thrusts it into Pietro's arms before he's fully processed, well, anything.

"See the string?"  He thumps the thin rope coiled around the bucket handle.  "Use that to lower this into the water, right?  Soap's back here . . ." and he points to a couple of grimy boxes in the back of the closet, "and don't be too liberal with it.  Got that?  Good."  And he bounds off again, leaving Pietro stranded with the paraphernalia.  He stares after Evan with the same blank expression for all too long before stumbling toward the railings to fill the bucket.

Ho hum.

You hardly need to be told that swabbing the deck is not anyone's dream job, but it's not overly strenuous, especially when you know you're really more of a charity case than an employee and no one's going to shove you off the side because your pace isn't quick enough.  Pietro is not so much lazy as meticulous to the point of not getting anything done and the dark boy passes by him several times without seeing much progress (which he loudly tells him a few times).  Then he'll go a little faster, but there's always a crack darker than the rest of the board which he'll try to lighten up and an hour later, it's still darker than the rest of the board and most of the deck is just as dirty as it was when he started.

When Evan comes to fetch him for dinner, he's almost in the same position, still ineptly mopping away at one spot, his tongue neatly pinned between his teeth and his expression determined.  That crack is still there, by the way.  Evan sighs loudly . . . and then has to sigh again, even louder, before the pale boy turns to look at him, thin eyes a little wider with a mix of indignation of being disturbed and simple surprise.

"What?"  

"Dinner time, my child.  You do eat?"

"Um . . ."  His face scrunches as he tries to think of something clever.  "I guess."  Failure.

"Then put your mop away and come eat.  You can finish the deck later."  Assuming such a thing is possible.

The pale boy blinks, shrugs, and wanders off to do just that.  Evan doesn't bother to watch him, making his casually hurried way toward the main mess and looking as comfortable and indifferent as something that sticks out as much as an African can.  His curiousity is mildly piqued by Pietro, as it would be piqued by any anomaly.  Not that his mere prescence is anything special.  The captain is a bit of a pushover.  Any poor idiot out of his luck and dumb (or smart) enough not to scrounge together a full payment usually gets signed on as a sailor.  Not that any of them are particularly good sailors -- tend to get in the way, often as not, or get sick over the side on a constant basis.  It's not even that Pietro is a gypsy -- it's more that he's a _lone gypsy, without caravan or family to load with him and Evan's never known a gypsy to hire out, like he would otherwise expect some callow youth without resources to be doing._

This is primarily why he's interesting and primarily why the captain is a bit more antsy about hiring him on than he usually is.  Gypsies seldom travel alone and they do have that reputation for stealing, which is partially deserved, no matter what side you're on.  When a group lives outside the law, they live outside the law, even if the law is unjust -- and they'll get hammered for it.  Evan's own had been hammered, back on the continent he must have been born on, long ago as that was, for essentially the same thing, only theirs had been a more active protest.  So it was.  Yeah, Evan was inclined to feel sympathy for gypsies in general, since they lived by what means they could while still being gypsies, but he also happened to be second mate on a ship and the ship certainly came before sympathies.

And if a lone gypsy didn't end up spelling trouble, Evan would be fine with that.  But if Pietro stole, he'd come down on him hard enough.  You didn't get patrons if the rumor went around the sailors were theives, right?

See, it's not just that he's a gypsy, Evan muses as he wanders to a side table with a bowl of fish 'n' stew, it's also that he's kinda sullen and strange for a kid out on an adventure.  Breaking all family ties, no money to speak of, well, yes, it's all something to keep an eye on him for.

The little pale boy stumbles into the food line not long after, and Evan makes sure he catches his eye.  He's fairly intent on Pietro sitting at his table, if only to be nice and watchful at the same time.  And, when he does have his bowl, Pietro ends up walking in his direction after all.  There's a skittishness in his glance, like he's terribly unsure, and he breaks his direction slightly to veer off toward an empty table, but Evan clears his throat and slaps the spot beside him insistently.

Now Pietro's eyes look very worried and keep snapping from him to the empty table, but a grin twitches around his lips and he ends up sitting across from Evan, as he thought he probably would.

"So.  How are you liking the ocean?"  Evan doesn't particularly care, of course, but it's always polite to start the conversation when you're talking to a new 'un.

"Big," he says inanely, digging his spoon into the stew.  "I mean, so's the land, but with all the hills and trees and stuff, it doesn't look it quite as much."

"You'll get used to it pretty quick.  Although the ocean has plenty of hills in it, you wait.  So . . . I expect you've travelled a lot?"

"Yeah, all over.  It's like, well, y'know, we don't keep to one place so long.  Most places look pretty much the same, though."

"Perhaps.  Perhaps you'll think differently of America?"

His face falls slightly.  "It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't?"

"I don't care what it looks like."  He attacks the stew -- Evan suspects more to avoid talking than out of hunger.

"It's fairly pretty," he fills in.  "Prettier than here, I thought, although your country gets quite green up around the north, America is that bright of green all along its coasts.  It's green without the rain, and as you get further in, the green mellows into more of a pine.  Go far enough and you might as well be wading through dust, for it all drops off into patches of desert in the middle, but what desert, all dust and ashes.  Beautiful in a sense most deserts aren't.  Most deserts live, just subdued.  America has the beauty of the dead."

"Mmph."  Pietro drops his spoon, tilting his head and swallowing.  "You've travelled more than I have."

"I've been between here and America so many times . . . but I'm more recounting stories than anything from experience."

"Don't like to leave the ship?"

"I visit coastal towns enough.  But if I wander too far inland and get lost, there goes my job, right?"

"I guess.  Unless you felt like getting another one."  

"It's never that easy.  My skill is with the sea."

"'Least you have a skill."  And there's that sullen tint to his expression.  "I don't know what I'm going to do when I get to America."

"You don't exactly have family there, do you."

"Left all my family home.  Save my dad, y'know, don't know where he is."  He flicks the haft of the spoon, trying to decide whether to pick it up again.  "But who does?"

"I expect you weren't terribly close to your folks."

"Not at all.  I was raised by the caravan, really.  Just thought my mom had to be in there somewhere.  But they didn't really want me, not a one of them."  As he speaks, his voice gets angrier, more rapid.  He might as well be glaring holes in that spoon.

"Why not?  You seem like a nice kid."

"Not really.  I'm not a nice kid at all.  You just don't know me yet, see."  Voice still fast, top heavy, like it's going to collapse at the end of the next sentence, or maybe the next.  "Anyway, no one wants me, so I'm going to America to start over.  Everyone should be able to start over, you think."

"Definitely.  That's one thing about living on a boat.  Learn to swab just a little faster, and perhaps we could keep you on."

"Don't like the water, really.  That's a fact, there."  He hasn't thrown up over the side yet, but there is the film of misery over his face that might be his unwanted orphan angst or, yes, the beginning of sea-sickness.  "Just had to sign on to get out."

"That bad, huh?"  

"Worse!  Was impossible to live like that, no one treated me properly, didn't matter who they were.  Maybe it won't be any different in America, I guess, but at least I can try."

"There's always that.  But you don't have any useful skills, you say?"

"None.  No useful skills at all.  I'm pretty useless."

"So what are you going to do?"

The anger gives over completely to the misery.  "I don't know."

"Better figure that one out before we reach America, or you might as well jump over the side now and swim back to your clan."

"Yeah, probably."

Evan purses his lips.  The gypsy might be keen on dying young as long as he could die with dignity or some other such tripe.  Evan rather hopes that his few years on the boy gives him a bit more sense.  He tries again.  "Can you read?"

"Some.  Didn't have a whole lot of books, you know."

"You could probably get a clerk position somewhere."

"What's a clerk?"

"Well, you'd handle money, write down orders, things like that."

"No one's going to let me handle money."  He lifts his lip, snarling at the spoon.  

"I suppose you'll have some time to think about it."

"Yeah."  He drops the spoon and stares at Evan, leaning on his palm.  "So, what do I do after dinner?"

"Oh -- keep swabbing."

"Okay."  He picks up the bowl and trots off toward the back of the mess hall to dump.  Evan yawns for lack of an expression to plaster on her face.  The gypsy had come off as terribly young and petulant -- and perhaps not altogether harmless.  He'd gritted out plenty of bad-tempered teenage feelings, which were so much air, but a gypsy unwanted by the caravan -- oh, it's the whole lone gypsy thing.  When you live outside the law, well, Evan hasn't heard of too many gypsies booted for being _too_ law-abiding.

He finishes his dinner and climbs partway up the mast, watching the pale boy cleaning with desperate slowness below.  Certainly wouldn't be hired back for the sake of his incredible competence, but high marks for effort, no matter how dirty the deck remained.  The sun is long vanished before Pietro's struggle to remain upright and awake becomes all too apparent and Evan slides down on the deck to relieve him of the mop.

"You'll sleep down in the hold -- look, here's your hammock."  No, Evan does not normally keep hammocks slung over his shoulder, but he is nothing if not quick on the uptake and generally prepared and when there's a new sailor, that sailor'll be no good if he snoozes on the deck.  _That_ does funny things to poor liddle backs and muscles.  Of course, the poorer patrons have to experience just that, but they aren't working now, are they.

Pietro's head lulls in a weak approximation of a nod -- then he blinks awake, his mouth set in a drooping line.  "Okay."

Evan watches him stumble off and makes sure the pale boy descends before leaving for his crew-cabin.  Well.  So far the gypsy hasn't been any _real_ trouble.  There is always tomorrow.


	2. Chapter two

Pietro's eyes flare as if someone had dripped scalding water under his eyelids and that manages to wake him up.  He rubs the back of his hand hard against his eyes and the pain subsides into a general exhausted throb.  _Was up too late last night, but eyes don't _have_ to give themselves pangs while you're still alseep.  Hey, who knows, someone jostled the hammock and woke you up and you didn't notice right off.  Didn't matter the cause.  Eyes shouldn't hurt like that._

The day is grey-light enough, streaming through the hatch opening when Pietro bothers to see, to allow for being awake.  He has to wonder whether it's worth it to swing out of the hammock and and get to work.  It isn't as though anyone really cares.  It isn't as though anyone is _awake_ to care.  Most of those swinging or sprawling down in the hold with him are still out and snoring.  If someone had jostled him, they'd hurried out quickly.

Pietro has a hard time believing in the hypothetical jostler.  These are stone sleepers, most of them.  Might as well be dead for all they notice.  Oh, they do their fair share of tossing and turning and the occasional grunt, but if we are talking about essential eye flickers and half-conscious gurgles, these could be trampled and devoured by a horde of wolves before they arouse.  _Easy.___

They are stone sleepers, and they are also poor.  Pietro knows this.  It is a rare piece of wealth that drops this far down.  Sure, there's probably some pretender here or there who thought it'd be neat to play the pauper, but the chances of such an idiot being on this ship, in this hold, are sparse.  No, the pickings will be lean and more dishonest than the dishonest.  There's no shame, really, in pilfering from the fat.  It's quite a different matter to clean the pockets of those so desperate their ribs barely contain their lungs.

But it can't hurt to look.  Pietro can never help but look.  There's always that chance the rich idiot decided to sleep in the hold or that some poor unfortunate has something he'll be obliged to part with should Rafael see it.

He knows it is wrong.  He's quite aware of that fact.  He also knows that no matter how still the hold is now, there can always be some restless soul, concealed from his sight by rise after rise of bodies, who will feel his questing fingers and have him in an arm lock before he can squeak.  He still has to look.  It's so ingrained in him now that he doesn't know how to stop.

_Has nothing to do with being a gypsy,_ he asserts to himself as he always does with bitter loyalty.  He's a bad person and he would have been a bad person no matter what he'd been born as.  He'd have been bad if he was born an English noble.  Or even a king.  

His feet are light over the wood -- he walks largely on his toes, the bulkier heels never touch the ground when he's trying to be quiet.  His back is hunched and his hands always hover over pockets and cloaks with a detatched curiousity that is always fueled by a deeper desire for taking and accumilating and the value doesn't matter.  His own pockets are full of useless trinkets, long worn away from overuse, all them old.  Some, he's had since he was a kid and they still have his kiddie tooth marks.  He'd gnawed on such things when he was angry or lonely, which was always often -- the fact that it happened often makes him embarressed for being weak.  And bad.  He always has to add the bad, just so he doesn't forget.

A cough behind him cuts his brooding short and he flings himself to the boards, to disappear among the other sleepers, even though whoever had coughed had probably seen him.  But he'll be quiet unless whatever it is makes him come out.

A second cough is followed by a "Pietro" and hiding any longer won't work anyway.  He scoots around and stands up, his palms in front of him to show they are empty.  Evan is leaning out the hatch and Pietro might have figured it would be him.

"Light sleeper?" Evan asks, without much conviction.

"Yeah.  I have nightmares and then I have to pace until I feel better."  A lie, but you have to be good at dispensing lies if you're a thief and want to live.

"Uh huh.  Well, come on up and let's get started."

Pietro is sure Evan had seen him and when the dark boy's head vanishes back top side, he chews his lip for comfort.  When a little blood is trickling down his neck, he does feel better, and is able to follow Evan.  Chances ae his hours on the ship are numbered, but he always feels better after he's let his blood before anyone else has a chance to.  Makes him feel like he's in control.

The dark boy looks at him quizzically as Pietro balances himself on the deck.  "Cut yourself?"

Oh, that.  He wipes the back of his hand against his lip and smiles a tight, insincere smile.  "I'm clumsy."

"Come here."  At least Evan doesn't waste time.  Pietro shrugs and pads toward him with his head half tilted toward his chest until he's within a foot.  The proximity makes him uncomfortable.

Evan's fingers hook hard into Pietro's headband and bring him up on his tiptoes to look directly into furious brown eyes.  

"If I report what I just _thought I saw, gypsy, you'll be in serious trouble.  I know a few barrels we can chat behind if you care to discuss it."_

"Uh . . . okay."  His throat keeps jogging up and down between his jaw and his collarbones and there isn't anything else he can say.

Evan drops him roughly to the ground and motions him to follow.  Pietro doesn't really have much choice.  What can he do otherwise?

Those barrels do not seem to be the most private place in the world to Pietro, who can only eye them with apprehension.  Anyone coming from . . . several different angles could catch the "discussion" and Evan's reporting wouldn't be necessary, if that report is anything like he thinks it is.  But the dark boy's arm catches his wrist and dragged Pietro behind the barrels with him.  His discomfort only rises.  Proximity is becoming downright claustrophobic.

"A-ah, so, what did you think you saw, then?" he stammers hurredly, just waiting for the captain to come careening around the corner.

"A kid skulking around the passengers and searching pockets.  That's just kind of a suspicious thing right there, you think, maybe?"

"Um, maybe."  Any excuses for skulking just aren't coming to mind.

"Empty your pockets."

He does so, trying hopelessly to remember if he'd actually stolen anything in the hold.  So far, what he is pulling out looks familiar enough.  A smooth stone that had once been part of a road, a weathered, rusted nail that no longer has any sort of point on it, strips of bark so tough and well-carressed that the hard parts have long been chipped away and what remains resembles old skin as much as anything.  Junk like that.  Pietro breathes a silent sigh of relief.  He'd stolen many valuble things before, but only the most tactile and (usually) the cheapest items remain with him.  There is a difference between _having_ to have something and _wanting_ to have it.  In the first category, as soon as he had it, he'd drop it by the roadside at the next oppurtunity.  The other, he might keep for years and no one would bother him about it.  Thank goodness (well, some other person's goodness) that all the stuff in his pockets is in that latter category.

"Didn't find anything you wanted, then?"  But there's an odd gleam in Evan's eyes that Pietro hasn't seen before.  It might pass for a smile.

"Not really."  He hopes he sounds like he's joking.

"I couldn't get you in trouble from evidence like this," he says as he sniffs the skin-like bark suspiciously.  "But I can based on what I saw, because the captain trusts me and I do think, sorry, kid, that stealing was what you were about to do.  So, what would you suggest?"  
  


"About what?"

"Should I turn you in or give you one of those, whatsit, second chances, knowing full well as I do that you probably _will_ do it again?"

"I don't know."  Excuses are still not coming to mind.

"Could you promise me that you wouldn't do it again?"

"No."  _I guess one could try honesty._

He sighs.  "Why?"

"Because it's what I do.  It's not like I keep it."

The dark boy's eyes rove over the junk pile again.  "I can believe that.  What do you do with it?  Toss it to the poor?"

"Just drop it."

"Wherever?"

"Pretty much."

"Why on earth do you bother, then?"

"Just do."

This time, Evan's sigh is one of those frustrated groans.  "It's still trouble, kid.  If the captain, no, if _anyone finds little piles of valuables around the ship, what do you think's gonna happen?  Do you really think that they'll try to return each piece to their proper owner?  Well, the captain might, but anyone else __will keep it, unlike you -- and the captain, he'll want to know who the joker is, understand?"_

Pietro nods reluctantly.

"Look, I'm sure you're not just trying to be silly, but this is a really bad habit to be carting around with you.  Especially on a three month journey in open sea.  No good, kid."

"I'm not any good," he barks as if that's some kind of defiance.

"And you can't stop."

"No.  I try and it doesn't work.  I still have to do it."

"All right, all right."  He throws up his hands, but his face is clenched and concentrating.  "We have one port before we peel off for America.  I'll drop you off there without telling the captain why -- I'll make some excuse -- and there won't be any charges pressed or heads rolled or anything of the sort.  How does that sound?"

"I want to go to America," Pietro presses, one hand pummeling weakly into the other one.  

"Want to, or have to?"  

"I won't be safe here."  The admission is soft and, embarressed, of course.

"I believe that.  You've been caught before."  

"Yeah.  Caught pretty bad."  He hitches his shoulders around his ears.  "Not like I have a death warrent or anything, though."

"What did you steal?"  

"A knife.  It was silver and it had a stone handle that was black."  His hands move around his lap as if he is running it through his fingers again.  "About this big, a nice size for holding, and it was very sharp.  If you didn't hold it flat against your palm, it would slice into your skin.  Never held anything like it."

"Then I can guess you didn't drop it by the roadside."

"No.  I wrapped it in a scrap of blanket."  His eyes close and his hands continue to move dreamily.  The flat of one fingernail rubs slowly against the scabbed side of the opposite hand, where he'd cut himself with the thin edge and it'd felt so . . . different.  Almost holy how clean it had cut, the edges of the gash so straight and even and the blood didn't well out for what seemed like an hour.  "I wrapped it and kept it in my pocket.  But I'd stolen it from a rich guy and he approached my caravan about it with threats and guards.  They always think the gypsies did it, you know.  One of the kids saw me messing with it and he told the guy.  Maybe he wouldn't have said anything if anyone in the caravan liked me, but I stole from them, too.  It was dangerous, see, for me to travel with them.  So they brought me to this guy and I had to give it back and his guards dragged me away from the caravan."

Pietro glances quickly up and around.  The deck is still suspiciously empty and Evan's dark eyes are starkly transfixed on him.

"I thought I was going to die," he continues uneasily.  "But they didn't even rough me up.  Just took me to a clump of trees and the guy told me that if he ever saw me again, he'd personally cut my hands off and shove them up whatever . . . whatever, uh, body opening he could find that would fit, even if he had to slice some new ones that'd work."  He can feel sweat pricking inside his ears and swallows hard.  "And he said some other stuff like that.  Took him seriously.  If you . . . drop me off at the next port, I'm afraid he'll find me."

Evan exhales, scratching the back of his foot.  Pietro hadn't noticed the almost contortionist position Evan's sitting in until now.  "'Tro, kid, do you know _anything_ about this fellow?  Such as his profession, mayhaps?  No doubt he's a huge big-wig if he's packing guards, but if he's sedentary, you might not have anything to . . ."

"He's a merchant, I think.  I dunno of what.  But he could be wandering anywhere.  And I dunno his route, but . . ."

"Olnack is the stop before America, and it's a large city.  Much larger than the one you just left -- a hub, even.  Heck, we only stop in the port we just left because it's the captain's home town, see?"

"How large is large?  And what do you mean, a hub?"  Pietro blurts in a stab of forboding.

"Very large, probably the largest city on the Spanish coast.  So it's fairly important for trading purposes.  If your buddy's a wandering merchant, there's not much chance he won't show up there from time to time."  Evan cracks a knuckle, briefly breaking gaze.  "It doesn't change much, though.  I'm sorry.  My job's fairly busy and there's no way on earth I can supervise you and do what I'm hired for."

"But he'll kill me!" Pietro barks, leaning abruptly forward.  Evan doesn't flinch.

"You're assuming a lot with that statement.  I can understand that you're scared, but your merchant probably has better things to do than scout for some thieving idiot, no offense, who's not liable to ever steal from him again.  And Olnack is . . . big, let me say that again.  You're not likely to run into each other.  And, if you do, there's that whole possibility he's completely forgotten you, right?"

Pietro shakes his head spasmodically.

"Oh, really, a silver dagger wouldn't be anything to his pocketbook.  You probably were more amusement than inconvenience."

"He seemed . . . serious."  He really had.  Pietro hadn't felt capable of doing anything more complicated than running like a bunny after his encounter.

"They all do."  Evan frowns.  "Kid . . . it's just the facts.  You've got to get off at Olnack and you'll probably be fine.  Don't give this rich little rear mystical abilities, okay?"

"I don't know how to survive in a city."  This particular train of argument probably won't work as well as the last one, but it's all Pietro can think of.

"You apparently don't know how to survive _anywhere."  Evan gets to his feet with more grace than Pietro would have considered possible, as Evan had been sitting in such an . . . odd way that --  "Look.  The deck's going to get real busy once the bell rings and I'm the fellow who rings the bell, right?  So the chat's gotta end now -- I take some pride on getting it rung right on the sixth hour.  Tell you what.  Boarding at Olnack takes a day or so.  I'll see if I can hook you up with work somehow and we'll see how it goes.  All right?"_

Pietro has been trying to follow suit in the whole "rising to one's feet" thing and finds his knees stiffer than he thought.  His guilty nod ends up directed more towards his thighs than Evan.

"Splendid.  Trot along to breakfast after the bell and keep your hands to yourself."

He pads off, leaving Pietro to extricate his back from the funny crick it had bent itself in.


	3. Chapter Three

Evan rings the bell and the ship stirs in response, the mere trickle on the deck ebbing into a puddle and soon enough it'll be more of a stream or some such. He glances back at the spot where he'd left Pietro and the gypsy stands there blankly, an eddy in the increasing crowd. It is a wonder he has even as much meat on him as he does if he can't figure out "breakfast."

Not that he hadn't been acting odd earlier -- pick-pocketing is a ridiculously dangerous profession at any time. To do it in a full hold -- where it's hard to sleep deeply and a large amount of patrons are awkwardly rousing at fifth hour or earlier (if they've slept at all) -- borders on the insane. It baffles Evan how Pietro could _not_ have reckoned on being seen by a passenger and reported.

The only bit of luck Pietro had was he'd been reported to _Evan_. Evan snorts and wheels toward the captain's cabin.

He doesn't finish his first knock -- the captain jerks the door open before Evan's knuckles have pulled away from it. "Good mornin'!" he says cheerily. "What's on yer mind?"

Captain has obviously had a good night. "Could I talk to you a moment?"

"Any time." The captain scoots to one side and motions him in. Evan eyes the chair in front of the captain's desk with unusual wariness as he steps over scattered piles of clothing and maps. He's sat on it so many times, it should have given him no reaction, emotional or otherwise, but the sit-down instinct. But he waits until the captain has sat down before sitting himself. The captain favors Evan with a look of concern and he flinches.

"Captain," he says hurredly, "I'll be going on shore when we land at Olnack -- just for a day or so."

"Oh!" The captain smiles. "That's no trouble, Evan. You don' 'ave to _ask_ 'bout a little thing like that."

Evan smiles back, a little strained. "You won't leave without me?"

"'Course not! I was plannin' on harborin' for a while there anyway."

"Oh, good, then. That's all, really." Evan moves to get up, but the captain motions him to stay.

"Evan, maybe you should stay a-ground a little longer."

Evan blinks. "Sir?"

The captain taps his desk, his expression troubled. "Evan, I bought you so you'd have a 'ome and a childhood. But I wonder if this ain' gonna be where you want to live and work all yer life."

"I'm fine with it."

"You don' know any other life."

"I'm fine with that, too."

"Evan, I don' know the age precisely, but yer over twenty, I'm sure. It's time to leave the ship fer a while."

Evan shifts, weighing whether to look the captain in the eyes. He can feel something weak quivering under his lungs and has no particular desire to expose it. "How long?" he finally asks quietly, ducking his head.

"Just fer this voyage. You know how long they take -- just be in Olnack then and we'll take you back. Consider it a vacation."

"What if I'm not there?" Evan asks, more a challenge than a question.

"We'll wait fer a week," the captain says gently. "It'll be fine, Evan."

"It won't be safe," Evan barks. "It won't. Not like I'm thrilled to bring it up again, but you did _buy_ me, not _adopt_ me, and that says quite a lot about how safe it is to be me _and_ out and about."

The captain reaches over to tough his arm lightly. "I think you'll be fine. You're not so very young now and you've seperated more brawling patrons than sailors older and more experienced'n you would care to admit. And that without havin' to lay anyone out. You're very capable . . . "

"I know my place on the ship." Evan scowls at his knuckles. He's insulted that the captain immediately resorts to stroking his ego.

"You'll be fine. Just try it out."

"All right."

"Good."

"I'll also be escorting the gypsy off the ship," Evan adds, trying to give the sentence the casual tone of an afterthought.

"Oh? I thought 'e was stayin' on 'til America?"

"He changed his mind. But he's even less of a city grunt than I am, so."

"Very well, then. He may prove good company for you." The captain is staring at him intently as if to belie his words. "Evan, has he been actin' . . . weird, the gypsy?"

Evan freezes. Theiving counts as _deviant _behavior, but not necessarily _weird_. Besides, he'd promised Pietro it wouldn't come up, therefore, it wouldn't. "Well. He stands absolutely still at inoppurtune times and he sometimes acts like he's completely alone in a crowd, but," he ticks the factors off on his fingers, "that might just be a combination of seasickness and nerves." 

The captain exhales. "Have 'im talk to me before you leave. 'S nothin' important, but . . . see, the main thing about lone gypsies that's trouble ain't got nothin' to do with stealin', listen." Here he lowers his voice and Evan leans forward to catch it. "It's that some o' 'em, the rest of the gypsies _want_ to leave. Don' wanna have to deal wit' 'em at all. Nobody 'cept them knows exactly why, but I'll tell ya, the lones ones are bad luck. An' I mean in the way ravens is bad luck, not in the way black cats an' ladders is, if you catch me." He eases back, smiling slightly. "You jus' watch out fer yerself. But if you wanna take 'im on, do it! Generosity never 'urt no one . . . well, 'alf the time it don'. I trust yer judgement."

"But you still want to talk to him," Evan ventures, unsettled. 

"Yes. Jus' to say bye. See, 'e didn't _sit_ well wit' me when he came on, not at all, but I'd be an idiot to turn 'im away once 'e's 'ere. Can't avoid bad luck by kickin' it out on its tail and throwin' its bags out after it, can we? Jus' make it worse. But, see, maybe I was wrong. So let me say bye to 'im."

"I wouldn't stop you." Evan fiddles his fingers briefly in his lap. "Um. When you say he's bad luck in the sense ravens are, you don't mean his prescense foretells death?"

"Nothin' so specific. It's more like they're 'arbringers. I talked to some folk from a caravan once and they didn' tell me much, but 'parently they'd just _lost_ their 'arbringer. 'Parently that 'appens a lot, that 'arbringers will just disappear like that and it makes the gypsies real antsy if they do. 'Parently sometimes that means somethin' particular _awful's_ comin' up and the 'arbringer is runnin' from it. See, that's why I wanted to know why 'e's leavin'." And here he stares hard at Evan again.

He swallows. "It's not that. You should see him tossing up over the side -- practically every fifteen minutes. He's just not built for the sea."

"Well, tha's nice to know. I'll talk to 'im anyway, but tha's nice to know." He creaks loudly in his chair, his expression turning glassy. "I think I'll wait on breakfast. Just worn myself out thinkin' about this nonsense. You go ahead."

Evan nods and slips out, his pace quicker than is seemly.

It i_s_ nonsense. He knows very well that Pietro is only leaving because he's forcing him to and although Pietro has plenty of brooding looks, they are more the looks of a self-pitying, self-ruined teenager feeding off his own darkness, less the looks of a prophet viewing imminent doom with practiced horror. He seems mildly oblivious (if quite driven in his ignorance!) more than dreaming pre-cogniscant dreams and Evan believes his story -- there was too much sour joy in his retelling for it to be a quick fabrication, something to disguise his visions and further doom the ship.

His pick-pocketing can be explained away to fierce addiction and the tenacious awkwardness he'd shown at scrubbing the deck. And there, no visions, no prophecies, nothing for Evan or anyone else to worry about beyond losing a purse.

The captain's tone still worries at the back of his mind, though. All his "it's nonsense" aside, there had been a hopeless quality in his voice and a general dread and that didn't seem to _fit. _The captain is not a superstitious buffoon _or_ a cheerfully pessimistic scholar chap who cries _dangerous new trends ahead!_ every other week, right? He is the captain, solid, educated without feeling the need to use large words or pretty dialects, and really quite a happy man. Yes, quite happy. 

__

Maybe, Evan tells himself, _the whole thing is just misplaced sadness over losing me. Awww. That would be so sweet._

But that doesn't fit either. General friendly affection aside, Evan has always been more a capable and well-liked hand than a son and the captain could never be said to be _protective_ about where he went and what he did.

__

Well, maybe he was just burying his love for you all these years.

No, it doesn't fit. Maybe if he really saw him as a father, it would.

It makes him feel callous, as he walks to the mess hall, at his own pace, own time now, that he can't dredge up great wells of family feeling toward the man who'd raised him and had always been kind to him. It is wrong to be more attached to the ship's haven than to the captain who gave it -- a great ingratitude. 

Perhaps it is true what too many of the sailors and patrons had talked and whispered. Like cares for like. The end. Which leaves Evan alone and untouched.

__

Ah well.

Pietro is perched at the end of a table in the deeper shadows of the mess hall, looking harried. His expression might have derived from his partners on the bench, all sailors and all, as Evan remembers, prone to general rowdiness. I.e. they are young, male, and powerful in their own minds, which somehow immediately transfers to them also having the sort of great wit and humor that everyone can appreciate, even if it is at everyone's expense.

Evan despises them. Not hates them, that's too much energy to direct toward overgrown kids who might grow out of it and might not and are mostly harmless. He just despises them for being annoying and ever-present, like flies. The old despising feeling is intensified today because at the rate they're leaning in toward the gypsy, they might literally end up overwhelming him in a very physical manner. Evan huffs and lengthened his stride.

Upon closer examination, Pietro's expression is more _terrified_ than harried and there doesn't seem to be any justification for _that_. The nearest of the sailors, a twip Evan calls Bone-Head due to an inability to remember his name, is trying to offer Pietro something to drink, doubtlessly wired with alcohol strong enough to make any novice puke his guts for hours, but he doesn't seem to be offering very hard. Or even persistently. He keeps looking over his shoulder at his buddy Log-Nose (there are honestly too many names for Evan to remember) and chatting about grog and girls while his flask of spirits dangles disregarded in the hand nearest Pietro.

Pietro still stares at Bone-Head like he's sprouted six inch claws and is advancing for his soul.

Evan clears his throat as he reaches the table. The slight noise is enough to make at least half of the rowdies glance up at him -- it's nice to have some authority.

"Boys," he says, "scoot away from the gypsy, if you'd be so _kind_. I'd like to sit down."

No one moves and Bone-Head sniggers. Evan silences him with a firm glare.

"Clear off, children. I hear that Little Jimmy Farter left his lunch and the contents of his bladder down in the hold. Last person to scoot gets to clean it up."

They scoot. Although they know as well as he does that there is no Little Jimmy Farter, they also know that Evan can and will cheerfully find a stand-in for the poor sick lad faster than a boy can blink. 

Evan promptly sits down next to Pietro, who has finished staring at Bone-Head and is now staring at him.

"Good morning, sunshine!" 

Pietro's eyes roll back into his usual smoking squint and the face around it softens into relief. Only, it is the kind of relief that drapes over a person's face after a particularly wretched bout of "illness of pain" has subsided into a general throb -- his skin is still ghastly pale with shock. 

"Hi," he says, and his voice quivers.

Evan's forced smile slips. "What happened?"

"He's gone?" he asks, disbelieving. He inclines his head, trying to look around Evan's shoulder.

Evan feels a brief flash of rage, lowering his voice into an angry hiss. "Who, Bonehead?" he snaps without thinking.

"That's his name?" He keeps straining, his squinted eyes flicking back and forth uncertainly.

"Close enough. Listen, what happened?"

"Nothing!" He shifts hard until his rear is flat on the bench. "I mean, I don't see him any more."

Now Evan is confused. "Who?"

"He was this giant and he was sitting right where you were."

Evan knows that there isn't anyone taller than the captain on the ship (he keeps careful track of important things like that). "Oh? What was he doing?"

The doubt must have dripped through his voice, because the gypsy gives him a sidelong, suspicious look. "You don't believe me."

"I can't exactly tell that until you tell me what you saw."

"He was sitting where you were and sharpening a blade on one of those flat black rocks. He didn't seem to see me, but he was talking to himself. About drinking blood. And he had," the gypsy swallows, "he had these things tied to his belt and . . . "

"All right, all right." Evan puts his hands up. "All right. Pietro, there's no particularly large people on the ship and we wouldn't let someone with that description on. Understand?"

Pietro nods, but his eyes flash resentment.

"That doesn't mean you didn't see something. But, really, you didn't see Bone-Head at all?" He points at the sailor.

Pietro leans around him again, peers, and shakes his head. "I don't see anybody."

"Oh." Evan isn't quite sure how to respond to that right off. "No one?"

"No one but you. I haven't seen anyone else all day 'cept for those sleeping in the hold."

"Oh." Evan has part of his lip between his teeth and almost gnaws before he catches himself. _What? Frightened? The kid's cracked, that should be obvious._ _Gonna attribute babblings to prophecy? Prophecy of _what? "That's unusual."

"So there's people all over the place and I'm not seeing them and no giants and I'm seeing giants?"

"Looks like."

"Then I'm crazy!" the gypsy spits and smacks a hand against the table -- which he promptly withdraws, shaking.

"Don't hurt yourself like that. It's not going to help -- all right, Bone-Head was trying to offer you something to drink. Did you sense any of that?"

Pietro starts to shake his head, then stops, scratching the back of his neck, his brow furrowed. "I remember there was something cold and wet kinda leaning against my arm, but I couldn't see it. It was like the feeling came out of nowhere. Like, like someone invisible throwing ice at me."

"That's a start. Um, Pietro? Has something like this ever happened to you before?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? You mean, you've never seen images or visions _completely_ unconnected to anything that _should_ be happening?"

"I can't tell the difference."

Evan groans and presses his fingers against his forehead. "Can't you, I don't know, _think_ about what would be _logical_ and what would _not_ be logical and gauge based on that?"

"It's all very easy when you're not seeing it!" Pietro growls. "And what good would it do me anyway? I can't make it go away!"

"What, you still see the giant?"

"Yes," Pietro says firmly. "You're sitting in him. It took me a moment to find him again, because he went faint when you sat down, he was little more than a shadow. But now that I'm used to you, it's like you're sitting in his lap."

Evan has to fight down a sudden impulse to jump away. _Don't let it get to you. He's just crazy, poor kid. _"Can you still hear him?"

"You keep talking. I keep talking. While we're talking, he whispers."

"Then I'll _shut up_. Just listen and tell me _exactly_ what he's saying."

He tilts his head quizzically, then his expression goes intent and the hall seems, for the moment, to be perfectly still, the chatter of conversation muted to dust mutters.

Then Pietro blinks and looks solemnly at Evan, his gaze flicking away almost immediately. "Now he's leaving."

"Leaving?"

"Just stood up and left -- or, no, someone was calling him. Yeah, he's out on the deck, now."

"All right, all right. What did he _say?_"

He squints harder, his eyes blue slits. "Someone was dying, I don't know who, and the giant didn't like him much and I think that was the blood he was gonna drink."

"_Exactly_ what he said," Evan repeats, folding his arms.

"Um . . . " His eyes practically disappear under an even harder squint, but can't quite classify as closed. "Um, 'Fadin' like a shadow, 'e is, not withstandin' who 'e was, don' much matter now, does it? Too bad 'e went this fast, could've 'ad more fun wit' 'im, but guess I got what I came for, didn' I? Can sleep well tonight and me thirst'll be quenched besides.' I think he might have been a little drunk, blabbering on like that."

It's strange. The gypsy's voice shifts entirely when he quotes the vision. Not that Evan hasn't played a mimic many times himself and he isn't too bad a showman as far as imitations go, but there isn't much doubt he himself is always lurking under the surface of any impromptu role he puts on. Pietro's voice simply _changes_, intonation, nuance, tone, depth and his expression swerves darkly to match it.

There isn't anything of old superstitious tales of possession to it, and if Pietro is mad, he has a good handle on madness, making it come and go as conversation would dictate. Evan quietly decides he either has a practiced charlatan on her hands or . . . perhaps . . . although he's loathe to admit it . . . Pietro is something _else_, perhaps exactly what the captain was afraid of. It stinks of myth to him, but, again, the captain is no hysteric and Pietro's oddness is starting to take on a horribly _eldritch_ factor.

Either way, he is a _remarkably_ good actor. Evan has a brief, silly impulse to ask Pietro for an imitation of himself.

Instead, he leans toward the gypsy, drumming his fingers urgently against the table top. "Pietro, I'm going to try this again. You _must_ have noticed if you were staring at one scene and someone like me intruded like it wasn't even happening, right? Has _that_ ever happened before?"

"Um . . ." Another nervous scratch at the back of his neck. "I can't say I've notic--"

"You must have!" Evan snaps, pounding the table. "It's impossible _not_ to notice something like that!"

"You're speaking from experience?" Pietro stubbornly counters.

"Are you trying to be difficult or what?"

"_Why_ is this so important?"

Evan grits his teeth and lets it out. "Pietro. Is there _any_ kind of tradition in your clan about people who can tell the future?"

Pietro blows out his breath scornfully. "_Sure!_ Everyone tells the future! It's like my hobby, cross-my-palm-with-silver, why doncha?"

His abrupt dismissal sets Evan back a couple of paces. So. If there is any merit to what he is seeing as far as the future goes, he either doesn't know, or isn't about to tell. Or he's faking. Or he's mad. Evan isn't getting anywhere. He sighs, nearly poking himself in the eye as his fingers automatically search for his forehead again.

"You still can't see anyone else but me?"

"No." He shrugs. It doesn't seem to matter to him and that niggles angrily at Evan's brain.

"That doesn't even worry you?"

"Hey, as long as I'm just seeing _you_, I'm happy."

Evan blinks, groaning internally. "You'd better snap out of it before we get to Olnack, kid. It's going to be _very_ hard to conduct business dealings with invisible people."

"Understood." 

"Great. If you're not going to eat, then," and there isn't so much as a spoon in front of him, "go swab. We only have a few hours before Olnack, so you might as well be useful."

Evan leaves him as quickly as he can after that, confused and not liking the feeling at all. If someone _has_ to be something so inconvenient as a seer, what ever happened to vague and pretty-sounding epigrams? How do you interpret giant-men-of-pure-evil roaming the ship?

He pauses and curses himself for an idiot. There is only _one_ way to interpret _that_. 

The captain's door is being pounded fit to break less than a moment later.

Evan is fast when alarmed.


End file.
